MISS SILVER BREAKS THE NEWS.
The Grange, the jointure house of the Dowager Lady Kingsland, stood,
like all such places, isolated and alone, at the furthest extremity of
the village. It was a dreary old building enough, weather-beaten and
brown, with primly laid-out grounds, and row upon row of stiff poplars
waving in the wintery wind. A lonely, forlorn old place--a vivid
contrast to the beauty and brightness of Kingsland Court; and from the
first day of her entrance, Lady Kingsland, senior, hated her
daughter-in-law with double hatred and rancor.
"For the pauper half-pay officer's bold-faced daughter we must drag out
our lives in this horrible place!" she burst out, bitterly. "While
Harriet Hunsden reigns _en princesse_ amid the splendors of our
ancestral home, we must vegetate in this rambling, dingy old barn.
I'll never forgive your brother, Mildred--I'll never forgive him as
long as I live for marrying that creature!"
"Dear mamma," the gentle voice of Milly pleaded, "you must not blame
Everard. He loves her, and she is as beautiful as an angel. It would
have been all the same if he had married Lady Louise, you know. We
would still have had to quit Kingsland Court."
"Kingsland Court would have had an earl's daughter for its mistress in
that case. But to think that this odious, fox-hunting,
steeple-chase-riding, baggage-cart-following _fille du regiment_ should
rule there, while we--Oh, it sets me wild only to think of it!"
"Don't think of it, then, mamma," coaxed Mildred. "We will make this
wilderness 'blossom as the rose' next summer. As for Harrie, you don't
know her yet--you will like her better when you do!"
"I shall never like her!" Lady Kingsland replied, with bitterness. "I
don't want to like her! She is a proud upstart, and I sincerely hope
she may make Everard see his folly in throwing himself away before the
honey-moon is ended."
It was quite useless for Mildred to try to combat her mother's fierce
resentment. Day after day she wandered through the desolate, draughty
rooms, bewailing her hard lot, regretting the lost glories of
Kingsland, and nursing her resentment toward her odious
daughter-in-law; and when the bridal pair returned, and Milly timidly
suggested the propriety of calling, my lady flatly refused.
"I never will!" she said, spitefully. "I'll never call on Captain
Hunsden's daughter. I never countenanced the match before he made it.
I shall not countenance it now when she has usurped my place. She
should never have been received in society--a person whose mother was
no better than she ought, to be."
"But, mamma--"
"Hold your tongue, Milly! You always were a little fool! I tell you I
will not call on my son's wife, and no more shall you. Let her come
here."
My lady adhered to her resolution with iron force, and received her
son, when the day after his return he rode over, with freezing
formality. But with all that, she was none the less deeply displeased
when he called and came to dinner and left his bride at home.
"My humble house is not worthy my lady's presence, I dare say," she
remarked. "After the magnificence of barrack life and the splendor of
Hunsden Hall, I scarcely wonder she can not stoop to your mother's
jointure house. A lady in her position must draw the line somewhere."
"You are unjust, mother," her son said, striving to speak calmly. "You
always were unjust to Harriet. If you will permit us, we will both do
ourselves the pleasure of dining with you to-morrow."
"It shall be precisely as the Prince and Princess of Kingsland please.
My poor board will be only too much honored."
"It is natural, I suppose," he thought, riding homeward. "The contrast
between Kingsland Court and The Grange is striking. She is jealous and
angry and hurt--poor mother! Harrie must come with me to-morrow, and
try to please her."
But when to-morrow came Harrie had a headache, and the baronet was
obliged to go alone.
There was an ominous light in his mother's eyes, and a look of troubled
inquiry in Mildred's face that told him a revelation was coming.
His mother's eyes transfixed him the instant he appeared.
"I thought your wife was coming?"
"Harriet had a shocking bad headache. She has been ill all day," he
replied, hastily. "It was quite impossible for her to leave her room.
She regrets----"
"That will do, Everard!" His mother rose as she spoke, with a short
laugh. "I understand it all. Don't trouble yourself to explain. Let
us go to the dining-room--dinner waits."
"But, my dear mother, it is really as I say. Harrie is ill."
"Ill? Yes, ill of a guilty conscience, perhaps! Such a mother--such a
daughter! I always knew how this mad _mésalliance_ would end. I don't
know that I am surprised. I don't know that I regret it. I am only
sorry that my son's wife should be the first to disgrace the name of
Kingsland!"
"Disgrace? Take care, mother! That is an ugly word."
"It is. But, however ugly, it is always best to call these things by
their right names."
"These things! What under heaven do you mean?"
"Do you really need to ask?" she said, with cold contempt. "Are you
indeed so blind where this woman is concerned? Why, my son's wife is
the talk of the town, and my son sits here and asks me what I mean?"
"Mamma! mamma!" Mildred said, imploringly. "Pray don't! You are
cruel! Don't say such dreadful things!"
"Your mother is cruel, and unjust, and unnatural!" he said, in a hard,
hoarse voice. "Do you tell me what she means, Mildred."
"Don't ask me, Everard!" Mildred said, in distress. "We have heard
cruel, wicked stories---false, I know--about Harrie and--and a
stranger--an American gentleman--who is stopping at the Blue Bell Inn."
"Yes, Everard," his mother said, pity for him, hatred of his wife,
strangely mingled in look and tone, "your bride of a month is the talk
of the place. The names of Lady Kingsland and this unknown man go
whispered together from lip to lip."
"What do they say?"
"Nothing!" Mildred exclaimed, indignantly--"nothing but their own base
suspicions! She nearly fainted at first sight of him. He showed her a
picture, and she ran out of the room and fell into hysterics. Since
then he has written to her, and mysterious personages--females in
disguise--visit him at the Blue Bell. That is what they whisper,
Everard; nothing more."
"Nothing more!" echoed her mother. "Quite enough, I think. What would
you have, Miss Kingsland? Everard, who is this man?"
"You appear to know more than I do, mother. He is an American--a
traveling photograph artist--and my wife never laid eyes on him until
she saw him, the day after our arrival, in the library. As to the
fainting and the hysterics, I chanced to be in the library all through
that first interview, and I saw neither one nor the other. I am sorry
to spoil the pretty romance in which you take such evident delight, my
good, kind, charitable mother; but truth obliges me to tell you it is a
fabrication from beginning to end. And now, if you will be good enough
to tell me the name of the originator of this report, you will confer
upon me the last favor I shall ever ask of you. My wife's honor is
mine; and neither she nor I will ever set foot in a house where such
stories are credited--not only credited, but exulted in. Tell me the
name of your tale-maker, Lady Kingsland, and permit me to wish you
good-evening."
"Everard!" his sister cried, in agony.
But he cut her short with an impatient wave of his hand.
"Hush, Mildred; let my mother speak."
"I have nothing to say." She stood haughtily before him, and they
looked each other full in the face, mother and son. "My tale-maker is
the whole town. You can not punish them all, Sir Everard. There is
truth in this story, or it never would have originated; and he has
written to her--that is beyond a doubt. He had told it himself, and
shown her reply."
"It is as false as hell!" His eyes blazed like coals of fire. "My
wife is as pure as the angels, and any one who dares doubt that purity,
even though it be the mother who bore me, is my enemy to the death!"
He dashed out of the house, mounted Sir Galahad, and rode away as if
Satan and his hosts were after him.
"Mamma! mamma!" Mildred cried, in unutterable reproach, "what have you
done?"
"Told him the truth, child. It is better he should know it, although
that knowledge parts us forever."
Like a man gone mad the young baronet galloped home. The sickly
glimmer of the fitful moon shone on a face that would never be more
ghastly in his coffin--on strained eyes and compressed lips. It seemed
to him but an instant from the time he quitted The Grange until he
dashed up the avenue at Kingsland, leaped off his foaming bay, and
strode into the house. Straight to his wife's room he went, fierce,
invincible determination in every line of his rigid face.
"She shall tell me all--she shall, by Heaven!" he cried.
He entered her dressing-room--she was, not there; her boudoir--she was
not there; her bedroom--it too was empty. He seized the bell and
nearly tore it down. Claudine, the maid, looked in with a startled
face.
"Where is your mistress?"
The girl gazed round with a bewildered air.
"Is my lady not here, sir? She sent me away over an hour ago. She was
lying down in her dressing-room; she said she was ill."
He looked at her for a moment--it was evident she was telling the
simple truth.
"Send Miss Silver here."
"I am not sure that Miss Silver is in the house, Sir Everard. I saw
her go out with Edwards some time ago but I will go and see."
Claudine departed. Five minutes passed--ten; he stood rigid as stone.
Then came steps--hurried, agitated--the footsteps of a man and a woman.
He strode out and confronted them--Edwards, his valet, and Sybilla
Silver. Both were dressed as from a recent walk; both wore strangely
pale and agitated faces.
Edwards barely repressed a cry at sight of his master.
"What is it?" Sir Everard asked.
The valet looked at Sybilla in blank terror. Miss Silver covered her
face with both hands and turned away.
"What is it?" the baronet repeated, in a dull, thick voice. "Where is
my wife?"
"Sir Everard, I--I don't know how--she--she is not in the house."
"Where is she?"
"She is--in the grounds."
"Where?"
"In the Beech Walk."
"With whom?"
"With Mr. Parmalee."
There was dead pause. Sybilla clasped her hands and looked imploringly
up in his face.
"Don't be angry with us, Sir Everard; we could not help seeing them. I
lost a locket, and Edwards came to help me look for it. It was by the
merest chance we came upon them in the Beech Walk."
"I am not angry. Did they see you?"
"No, Sir Everard."
"Did you hear what they said?"
"No, Sir Everard; we would not have listened. They were talking; my
lady seemed dreadfully agitated, appealing to him as it appeared, while
he was cool and indifferent. Just before we came away we saw her give
him all the money in her purse. Ah, here she is now! For pity's sake,
do not betray us, Sir Everard!"
She flitted away like a swift, noiseless ghost, closely followed by the
valet. And an instant later Lady Kingsland wild and pale, and shrouded
in a long mantle turned to enter her dressing-room, and found herself
face to face with her wronged husband.